


Red Dwarf

by pandarave12



Series: Days [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Greg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3080069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn’t scared of Moriarty. That’s ridiculous. Moriarty is intriguing, a puzzle Sherlock will willingly spend hours solving. But he’s scared for John, scared about what Moriarty can do to him.</p>
<p>The baby, as well, if he really thinks about it.</p>
<p>(Necessary to read previous stories before reading this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Dwarf

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that it took such a long time to write this. Ugh, just, the world building for the third part took a while. And this one hurts.

A red light pulses softly in centre of the bomb. It’s an almost perfect imitation of the lights that dot John’s chest, and the one that’s on Sherlock’s forehead. It’s there, must be there because John’s eyes keep flicking upwards, body angled towards him, his hands closed into fists. The gun feels heavy in Sherlock’s hand. He readjusts his grip. His palm is starting to perspire, the back of his neck prickling with cold sweat, but Sherlock tries a smile.

 

Moriarty smiles back.

 

“I was supposed to kill the boy, did you know that?” Moriarty drawls. His eyes are dark, almost black but they’re expressive enough that Sherlock can see the glint of malice in them. And perceptive enough that his eyes glance down at Sherlock’s stomach, making him feel exposed in spite of the added layer of his suit coat. “But you Holmeses are apparently difficult to kill.”

 

He moves and Sherlock can’t help but picture a snake. “My brother is overprotective of his children,” Sherlock replies, mirroring Moriarty. It brings him closer to John, close enough that John automatically rests a hand on the small of his back, fingers pressing hard, like Sherlock might disappear if he doesn’t keep a tight hold on him. He wants to interlace their fingers, squeeze his hand and tell him that everything is fine, everything is fine, but Sherlock is scared.

 

He isn’t scared of Moriarty. That’s ridiculous. Moriarty is intriguing, a puzzle Sherlock will willingly spend hours solving. But he’s scared for John, scared about what Moriarty can do to him.

 

The baby, as well, if he really thinks about it.

 

“He’ll skin you alive if you do,” Sherlock finishes. It doesn’t sound much like a threat and for Moriarty, Sherlock doubts that threats exist in his world. He lives for danger, loves to be challenged, and if Sherlock didn’t have John, he’s positive they’ll be exactly the same.

 

“So we like the same punishments, then,” Moriarty jokes. His eyes move to Sherlock’s stomach again. Sherlock has absolutely no idea how he does it, how he can smell the change on him when even John can’t yet. Moriarty’s scent, washed off any simulated scent, is completely blank, void even of the bland vanilla scent of Betas.

 

It makes Sherlock feel blind.

 

“And you?” Moriarty asks, voice slick and predatory as a snake’s. “Are you that protective as well?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock drowned once.

 

When he was seven and summer was just arriving, bringing with it the scent of apples in the manor’s courtyard. The pond was warm in the summer, and only in the summer, when upon thrusting your hands in the water, you’d be shaken by the shock of finding the temperature soothing instead of the usual ice-cold. When they were younger, Sherlock would sit at the edge and watch Greg and Luke try to pull Mycroft in, his older brother always succeeding in dodging them so that the two boys would fall instead.

 

He was seven; he didn’t know how to swim.

 

Later, Sherlock told his brother that it was a frog that made him do it. If the frog hadn’t been there to tempt him, he wouldn’t have fallen in. Father had slapped him, then, because he was a stupid boy, really, was he to kill himself every time something caught his interest?

 

John caught him.

 

Sherlock can still remember it. His lungs constricting as the water covered him, his nose and throat burning the whole time he tried to surface. And then a shout, a hand pulling him up, and when Sherlock opened his eyes it was to John shouting at him, more of an older brother then than the person he’s practically destined to spend the rest of his life with.

 

Déjà vu hits him just as hard as the pool water. Underwater, John holds his head, braces himself over him until the world stops shaking and Sherlock’s lungs feel like they’re about to burst. He tightens his fingers around John’s shoulders and the two of them rise. The ceiling’s collapsed in on itself, covering a good portion of the pool so that the only space available for breathing is a small gap that the two of them can barely share. It leaves them up to their necks in water and with the sharp smell of chlorine and smoke, every inhale must be carefully measured.

 

He smells blood. Why is there blood?

 

“Shit, you’re bleeding.” John coughs dryly then reaches one hand to him. Oh, Sherlock thinks when he feels the warm slide of blood down his face. That’s why it smells like rust. It’s too dark but the pool lights manage to produce enough light for Sherlock to see John’s face. In the blue glow, he looks grim, upset even, and Sherlock can’t help but think, _I did that._

 

“Hey, take it easy!”

 

Part of the pool edge is exposed and John grabs hold on it. He wraps his other arm around Sherlock’s waist, pressing him to him, so that Sherlock’s mouth is pressed against John’s neck. He can feel his pulse point against his lips, rabbit-fast against his skin. He coughs, spraying water all over John’s shoulder. It’s cold and his legs are beginning to get numb. There’s an eighteen percent chance they’ll both get hypothermia, a percentage that will steadily climb the longer they’re trapped here. He says it to John, and the arm around his waist tightens reflexively.

 

“Mycroft will find us,” John promises. He bumps his mouth against Sherlock’s forehead. “Just hang on, okay?”

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes to the sound of digging above them. _I’m in my own grave,_ Sherlock thinks hysterically. And then someone’s tugging him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him out of the pool until he’s lying with his back on the floor, grit digging in between his shoulder blades as he coughs and gasps.

 

* * *

Of course he can’t hide it any longer. The hospital staff is baffled upon finding out about his condition, and they bustle around him like bees, asking him inane questions that make Sherlock want to crawl out of his skin.

 

The doctor is young, energetic, and Sherlock deduces that he’s only been practicing for two years, when he delivers the news to John. It falls on Sherlock’s lap, heavy and exposed, and he fights the instinctive urge to curl in on himself and hide. The doctor’s smile becomes fixed when there is no enthusiastic response, and he looks down at his chart in a poor attempt to keep busy.

 

John stares at him.

 

 

And then he walks out, making the doctor drop his chart in surprise.

 

* * *

 

  

He knows exactly when it happened.

 

Three weeks ago, after the Shakespeare-themed murder case, when Sherlock had immediately gone into heat afterwards. He can’t remember much of it. That’s the point. He only has snatches of memories, like cards being shuffled in front of him. He remembers settling his weight on John’s hips, remembers John growling his name before biting down on his throat. He’d carried the evidence of it for days, along with shape of John’s fingers on the pale skin of Sherlock’s hips.

 

John’s the one who wants a baby, not him. Even when they talked about it three years ago, Sherlock was only doing it to keep John at his side, and he still went off and got shot in Afghanistan.  He neither wants it nor doesn’t want it, and when he thinks about the child, he only thinks of a number of cells growing inside him, not yet human enough to spark any sentiment.

 

His brother arrives two hours later, the children and Greg in tow. Cedric approaches him. His lower lip is red, the skin worn and peeling from anxiety. “I didn’t keep my promise,” he tells him balefully, words slightly slurred from having just woken up. Bea’s standing beside him, the two of them wrapped respectively in Greg and Mycroft’s jackets, making them look like children from the Industrialization period. Their hands are clasped together, and when Bea coughs, Cedric wipes at his own mouth.

 

Sherlock doesn’t reply even though it’s cruel to let him sit with that guilt. They share a look before Greg rests his hands on their shoulders to steer them out of the room. It leaves him alone with Mycroft and Sherlock stubbornly rolls in bed so that he’s facing the wall, back to his brother. Outside, he hears one of the twins laugh.

 

His eyes slide close as he lets his hearing become his dominant sense. The creaky wheel of a cart, the click of a nurse’s shoes against the linoleum floor, the dry cough a patient with pneumonia wash over him. No sounds that indicate John is anywhere near him. He worries at their link but John’s side is completely blank of emotion. It makes him feel bereft.

 

“You should have told him.”

 

Sherlock keeps quiet. Mycroft is using that tone, the one that says ‘I’m your older brother, I’m always right’. There’s a loose thread on the pillowcase and Sherlock tugs on it. “You are the only one to blame for the consequences of your actions,” Mycroft continues. Sherlock hears him get up, and when he looks over his shoulder, he sees him standing in front of the window, a contemplative expression on his face. His fingers are twitching at his side. He’s craving for a cigarette, and Sherlock begins to crave for one as well. But oh, wait, he shouldn’t smoke anymore. As in no more smoking while John isn’t there watching, not while this specimen is growing inside him. He scratches at his belly, bites back a wince when his finger accidentally digs hard at a scrape. That was how they’d pulled him out, shirt riding up so that the pool edge scratched at his belly. Where he a suspicious person, Sherlock would take it as a sign that the child is in danger.

 

But his mind’s far too logical for that nonsense, and besides, the child is his. It will always be in danger.

 

“I’d keep a closer watch on the twins if I were you.” He lets the implication hang in the air. He isn’t emotionally-attached to the twins, but there would be problems if one of them died. Greg’s depression, lack of access to cases, Mycroft not paving the way for him if he gets arrested. Mycroft frowns but Sherlock notices his shoulders tense a fraction. He wants to comment on it, tell Mycroft that he’s letting sentiment take over but, he’d act like that for John. For the child too, maybe.

 

“He’s in custody.”

 

Sherlock stares at him.

 

“He surrendered,” Mycroft corrects.

 

“Oh.”

 

* * *

 

 

John comes back. Of course he does.

 

* * *

 

 

In the cab, Sherlock traces his hand over John’s right hand, outlining the fractured metacarpals through the plaster from his memory of the scan. He has a black eye and there’s a cut on his cheek that sparks a bit of fury in Sherlock. He looks awful, derived from proper food and sleep, but Sherlock looks just as bad if the somewhat dirty mirror in the hospital is anything to go by. The cabbie is silent and Sherlock decides that he’s coming up with a hundred scenarios as to why a bonded couple came from the hospital battered and bruised.

 

John pulls his hand out of Sherlock’s grasp and gingerly rests it on his knee. There’s traffic; John is not as appropriate as people think he is. Now is the time to have this conversation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

He breathes shakily. “Cedric knew,” John mutters, anger barely concealed. “A kid knew before me and you kept that secret for days and—If you’d lost it, you’d have kept it secret, huh? Mycroft would have made sure that I’d have no way of knowing and—”

 

“Mycroft didn’t know.”

 

That startles John enough for Sherlock to see an opening. “You’re an Alpha, John. Surely you know what it was like to go through puberty as one. The boy picked up the scent change before I did, and when it was clear he was going to run off and tell either you or Mycroft, I threatened him. If you knew, you would have stopped me from further investigating Moriarty’s case.” He pauses, somewhat shame-faced as he adds, “I did not anticipate that he would go so far as to kidnap you.”

 

“You would pick playing with Moriarty over the safety of our own child?” John hisses, lowering his voice so that the cabbie doesn’t hear. Sherlock stares back, stone-faced, and John swears loudly. He keeps on his side of the cab for the rest of the ride.

 

“I’m keeping it,” he says later, once they’re safely encompassed in 221B. It sounds conditional, even to his own ears. _If I keep it, will you stop being mad, will you just look at me, John, will you stay, John?_ “Don’t think otherwise.”

 

“Really?” John narrows his eyes at him. His good hand’s resting on his upper thigh, squeezing slightly, telling Sherlock that his psychosomatic limp’s acting up again. The sight of it makes Sherlock childishly defensive, and he glares back, arms folded across his chest as he holds John’s gaze.

 

“Oh what? Do I have to play the perfect househusband just to get you to think that I have no qualms about this?” Sherlock snaps when John refuses to look away. “If I didn’t want this child I would have had it aborted weeks ago.”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. John’s hand tightens around the mug in his hand. He wants to throw it, wants to smash it against the wall and yell at Sherlock until his voice grows hoarse. Sherlock can read it in the lines of his body.

 

In the end, he doesn’t. Sherlock doesn’t know why it doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up disoriented the next morning, stomach contents roiling and moving their way up his esophagus so fast he barely makes it to the toilet in time. Inside the bowl, stomach bile and leftover Chinese swim together, and Sherlock recoils, nose wrinkling in disgust as the smell reaches him.

 

His head is pounding. Morning sickness, they say, but really, it’s more like anytime-of-the-day sickness. Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His skin is hot and clammy to the touch. It probably looks red, his face blotchy and his hair matted to his forehead. Whoever said that pregnancy will make you feel better about yourself needs to be gutted alive.

 

“Come here.”

 

John takes a seat beside him, and before Sherlock can protests, he gathers him in his arms so that his face is nestled in the crook of John’s neck. It leaves a trail of vomit and saliva on John’s skin, but it makes Sherlock feel better, the nausea diminishing until the only trace of it is the acrid taste in his mouth. Sherlock breathes John’s scent, almost greedily, and John lets him, even cupping the back of his head with his hand to hold him there.

 

“I’m keeping it,” Sherlock repeats once he’s composed enough. John hums a reply before brushing his mouth against his cheek. It’s an apology, a subtle one that Sherlock prefers over the banal words. _As if I have a choice_. He leans over the sink to wash his mouth. _It’s John’s baby as well. It deserves to live._

 

* * *

 

 

Without a doubt, the child will have his colouring. They have the more dominant genes if the twins are anything to go by. Cedric is a near-carbon copy of Mycroft, and Bea is a hodge-podge of both of them. Mostly with Greg’s features but her colouring is dominantly Mycroft’s: pale skin, freckles, auburn hair. It makes her look, and here Sherlock quotes John, “Like you belong in a 50’s advertisement for kitchen appliances—I’m not being sexist! Geez, you just look like the girls there, alright?” Cedric has Mycroft’s hands, a bit large for his body and with knuckles that stand out like they were meant for fights, and Bea has the same stark white birthmark on her upper arm that’s a clear replica of Mycroft’s.

 

Black hair, or dark brown, and definitely blue eyes, though there’s a possibility the child will have John’s eyes. Curly hair or wavy. And male. It will definitely be a boy. Omega, Alpha, or Beta, Sherlock isn’t sure because you can’t really tell until they’re born, but he’s positive he’ll be disappointed if it turns out to be an Omega. He has nothing against his own gender, but an Omega child will require more attention and Sherlock already knows he won’t be able to focus on the child all the time. He’ll get distracted by cases, by experiments. He’ll be lucky if he can remember to feed it.

 

“Ach! No, don’t share,” Greg complains, dragging Sherlock out of his thoughts. Bea has a drink in her hand and when she releases the straw with an audible pop, Sherlock sees the unmistakable sheen of saliva on the end. Cedric grabs it and drinks without hesitating. “Great,” Greg mutters, rolling his eyes. “Now that’s two kids with the flu.”

 

“I’m going to get sick anyway,” Cedric argues. “Bless you,” he adds when Bea sneezes. They have their skateboards tucked under their arms, their faces silently asking permission to go. Outside the office, Sherlock can see Anthea (her name is Carol now, but she always reverts to Anthea in the end, and it’s easier to use a fixed name). She glances inside then taps a reply to Mycroft in her Blackberry. Greg frowns at them, sighs, then waves them off.

 

“You’re going to deal with things like that,” Greg tells him once the door has closed. Sherlock taps his pen against the desk, trying to show that he’s not interested but Greg isn’t done ranting. And besides, he has to admit that he is a bit curious. The baby won’t stay a baby. It will grow, become testy and inquisitive when it reaches its teenage years, and Greg’s children are the only ones he can observe without being questioned for suspicious behaviour. “Skateboarding down roofs, running off to god-knows-where, making the telly explode while I’m watching, really. Mycroft doesn’t even scold them. They’re a bit a manipulative.” He quirks his mouth, expression moving from annoyed to fond in the space of a second. “They’re a bit like you when you were younger.”

 

Sherlock snorts at that. As if anyone can be like him.

 

“So you and John are having a baby, then?” Sally Donovan has a judgemental look on her face. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail today, and it makes her look stressed, highlighting the thinness of her face. She isn’t seeing Anderson anymore, but Sherlock deduces that they’ll be back together in a week. Two Alphas, it’s unbecoming.

 

She has a child a few years younger than his brother’s. It isn’t Anderson’s.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock sneers. It was a mistake to go the scene. One whiff of the blood painted on the wall and Sherlock’s stomach turned. “I told you,” John texted afterwards, and Sherlock glared at Greg who shrugged and lied about not texting John. His stomach feels queasy, still, and Sherlock scowls at the cup of coffee in Donovan’s hand. Something salty would make it feel better, he thinks. And meaty, his stomach adds with a small rumble.

 

Sherlock tells it to shut up.

 

“Try not to raise a freak,” she goads. It’s unsure. She likes John, or if not like, then at least finds his company a good deal better than Sherlock’s.

 

“Only if you try not to raise an adulterer,” Sherlock answers, smiling slightly when a gobsmacked expression appears on her face. He turns, walking out of the room quickly before she can come up with a reply. It doesn’t hurt, not really.

 

He doesn’t want an ordinary child, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

The shirt doesn’t fit right.

 

Sherlock stares at his reflection in the mirror. The purple shirt is tight around his stomach, buttons straining more than usual. He unbuttons the last three buttons and lets out a huff of breath. His belly’s beginning to hang over the waistline of his trousers, subtle enough that no one would suspect his condition. Sherlock pokes it with his finger. The skin is taut and he presses gently, mindful of the pressure.

 

He turns to John, shows him.

 

“It’s making an appearance,” he says. John sits up and stares at it, fascinated. And then he pulls Sherlock forward by his belt loops and plants a kiss over his navel, warm and incredibly affectionate.

 

* * *

 

 

“So when are you going to announce it in the blog?”

 

A small whine from John’s laptop cuts off John’s reply. “Fucker,” Bea hisses, causing John to raise one eyebrow at her.

 

“Language, Bea.”

 

“Tell that to Dad. I picked it up subconsciously so don’t blame me.” She types something, fingers flying fast on the keys. “Your laptop has cancer. You ought to stop going to sites you don’t know.” This last, she says to Sherlock who ignores her in favour of coming up with fifteen ways to decorate the wall with bullet holes. He _could_ fix John’s laptop. He _could_ get rid of the viruses. But it’s a tedious process and his niece enjoys it, so. Sitting on the floor cross-legged opposite him, Cedric is engrossed in reading the manual for the crib John bought, eyes moving fast across the page. The stupid cat is sitting on his lap, tail twitching every time John walks in front of them. A while ago, John attempted to stop Cedric and tell him that he can do it on his own, but the twins are incredibly stubborn when it comes to fixing things. “It’s less work for you, John,” Sherlock had finally snapped. “Let him do it.”

 

The presence of the children calm him. Hormones, Sherlock thinks scathingly. Usually, they’re just part of the background.

 

“Once we’re out of the woods, maybe,” John answers. He sets a sandwich beside her and offers one of to her brother who takes it without removing his eyes from the page. Sherlock is handed one as well, with an added warning glare. It isn’t as if Sherlock needs it. Most of the time, he feels lethargic and hungrier than he ought to be. And the morning sickness has yet to stop so anything he eats is immediately flushed down the toilet.

 

Sherlock announces it. When John is in the bathroom and the laptop has been reformatted, he types, posting it just as John gets back. Water drips from his hair and falls on Sherlock’s shoulder when he leans over to read what Sherlock wrote. “Well,” he says, somewhat dumbfounded at the clinical tone of the post. “That’s quite you.”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock tips his head back and kisses him, warm skin against cold until Bea groans in disgust.

 

People write. Sherlock is famous so it surprises neither of them when, a few hours after Sherlock announced the news, they’re faced with a hundred ‘congratulations’. Sherlock scans the comments quickly, pausing only when he sees theimprobableone’s usual scathing-praising remark.

 

**It’s not your child. –SH**

 

The reply comes a few seconds later.

I didn’t expect that you’d actually go through with it. –A

 

And then another.

 

There’s a problem at work. I’m afraid it might reach you. Be ready. –A

 

* * *

 

 

Irene Adler is a Beta. This pisses Sherlock off more than the fact that she drugs John. “Not you, sweetheart,” she says before stabbing the needle in John’s arm, catching him by surprise. “I wouldn’t want to hurt the little one.”

 

“Alpha, you said Alpha,” he snaps at Mycroft.

 

“Sherrinford misinformed me,” Mycroft answers in a tone that clearly states he couldn’t be bothered to ask.

 

He would have played it more to his advantage but she’s immune to pheromones and any future forms of seduction will have to be played the old-fashioned way. It won’t be too hard, though. Irene is attracted to him. He can see it, in the way her pupils dilated when he got too close, in the way she would mockingly smile at John.  But she’s clever, dreadfully, wonderfully clever, and John gets jealous.

 

Later, he pins Sherlock to the sofa, making Sherlock yell when his hips jolt roughly against his, his spine arching with want when John smears his mouth against his, keeping him quiet. “Jealous,” he goads when they’re done and John smiles against the slight curve of his belly, teeth sharp against his skin.

 

* * *

 

 

Irene Adler dies. It isn’t the truth, Sherlock knows that. For a moment, however, he thinks this.

 

It worries John.

 

And then Sherrinford calls.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days after Irene dies (false, false, false), Sherlock finds himself back in the manor to celebrate a late Christmas with the rest of his family. He hasn’t attended one in years in spite of Mycroft’s threats. He isn’t surprised to see that nothing much has changed. It’s still the same large, cold place that makes the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck prickle. He hates this place but he’s pregnant, he should be on display. Still, he keeps the Belstaff on which smothers the gravid curve of his belly, and with one hand, keeps John close to his side, fingers tightening around his wrist every time someone comes close. It’s a poor way to conceal his state and everyone already knows, but it makes him feel less exposed. John brushes his knuckles against the small of his back and bares his teeth in a smile as an aunt of Sherlock’s stares at them snootily.

 

“Why aren’t you married again?” His uncle asks. Confined to the wheelchair, he’s nearly eyelevel with Sherlock’s stomach. His eyes are as blue and as piercing as Sherlock’s and Sherlock almost feels like he’s cutting through his belly, slicing a perfect Y in his skin from his throat to his belly.

 

“Because it isn’t necessary,” Sherlock says dismissively, ignoring the looks Ingfred and Priam exchange.

 

Cedric despises this as well. Sherlock can smell his distress, can smell the distinct scent of nervous sweat in the creases of his palms. Beside him, his sister stands, ready to deflect any questions that will make him more uncomfortable. “You should have a pre-bond, darling. You’ll be the head Alpha someday and you need a suitable partner,” Sherlock hears Aunt Frida drawl. Cedric puts on a smile, makes an excuse, then dashes off to where Mycroft is standing, leaving Bea to entertain their relatives. He leans against him, and Mycroft puts and arm around his shoulders, leans down to brush his lips against the scar on Cedric’s forehead. It’s instinctual, a subtle way of showing protection. It looks surprisingly intimate for Mycroft.

 

_If your brother can act like that, then surely you’ll be like him when it comes to your own child._

He presses his fingers against his belly, breath catching when it responses with a kick. John looks at him, concerned. “Your child is acting like a football player again,” he complains, and John grins with a touch a smugness.

 

“We can, if you want to,” John says later. They’re in Sherlock’s old room. Portions of it have been touched. The bedclothes have moved from white to dark blue and his old desk is gone, having been moved to the attic. But there are remnants of his childhood, still. Like the plastic skeleton on the shelf and the much battered hybrid of a bear and a bee which he’d so loved.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Get married.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “You don’t want to, either, John.”

 

“Well, no, it doesn’t really change things. I just thought it would make things easier.” He takes the bear from the shelf, squeezes it slightly in his hand. A bit of stuffing tries to make its way out of the hole where its left eye used to be. “Your family will accept this more if we are.”

 

“I don’t care about what people say,” Sherlock mutters. He cracks one eye open when John splays his hand over Sherlock’s stomach. Protective, possessive. The child seems to respond, squirming and pressing a bit uncomfortably against Sherlock’s bladder.

 

_You’ll spoil it. Kill for it. Love it unconditionally._

 

“They don’t matter.”

* * *

 

 

“She has a choice between death and imprisonment and she picked the latter,” Sherrinford says. He looks like he aged five years since Sherlock last saw him, the bones in his face too prominent to be considered healthy. There are nicotine stains on his fingertips and there’s a nick on the shelf of his jaw, paper-white against pale skin. “Irene was mine before she went rogue. I know how to take care of her well-being.”

 

His eyes keep jumping to Sherlock’s bare stomach, almost apprehensively. Sherrinford doesn’t like children. It’s obvious, from the skittish way he acts around Sherlock, and from the way he tenses when he sees a child. It’s almost phobic and Sherlock would laugh if he didn’t know that Sherrinford could turn on him.

 

Snake-like. Predatory.

 

The last time they saw each other was two years ago when John was away at a medical conference and Mycroft was abroad. Sherrinford was grinning then, teeth bright and smile as feral as a wolf’s. “Only stopping by to say hello, really, I have much to do,” he’d said, leaning down to kiss Mrs Hudson’s cheek. She was my neighbour growing up, Sherrinford had explained shortly after Sherlock first met his landlady, mouth quirking in amusement at the memory of his childhood. _She’s nice; she’ll keep your secrets._ Sherlock doesn’t have much secrets lately, unless you count Sherrinford. He’s a secret from John.

 

He isn’t smiling now. No one in the room is. Beside him, Mycroft sits, body angled towards Sherlock subconsciously. His hands grip the umbrella across his lap tightly, knuckles standing out to stain his skin white. They still don’t get along. Sherlock thinks they like to keep it that way, and really, it’s entertaining half the time, to have another person piss Mycroft off, but there’s a grimness in the air that refuses to go ignored.

 

“I seldom did business with Moriarty.” Sherrinford shifts in his chair, shoulders hunching forward defensively when Mycroft levels him with a glare. “Business is business, and besides, he wasn’t in your life, then.” A shrug, an attempt to display nonchalance that falls flat. He twirls the teaspoon in his fingers. “He was like me. But unlike me, he likes being in the spotlight. Spider to the fly, kid, that’s how it works.

 

“I’m afraid I have nothing on Moriarty.” He doesn’t sound very sincere. _Business is business_. “You’re on your own on this one.”

 

Sherlock pulls down his shirt. It’s John’s really, so it keeps riding up. Sherrinford’s eyes flick to it before they settle back to Mycroft’s face. “I can offer help for something else,” he says. “But not this.”

 

“You’re afraid.”

 

_Business is business._

 

A sharp inhale. A sad smile. “It’s life and death for me,” he says and Mycroft nods, understanding. Only his brother by blood, and Sherlock doesn’t mind, not really. He hasn’t seen nor heard Moriarty in months. And Sherlock isn’t afraid for himself. The baby, though.

 

 And John, always John.

 

A sharp pain in his belly makes Sherlock huff and all three of them watch the slide of an elbow underneath his skin. “My god,” Sherrinford breathes and Sherlock laughs in spite of himself.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a boy.

 

Sherlock stares at the human-shaped grey blot in the scan and decides on William.

 

“Really?” He lowers the volume of the telly then moves closer to Sherlock, cold fingers trailing up Sherlock’s shirt. The child is asleep, a heavy weight against Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock spent the last thirty minutes abusing his violin to try and find something to calm it down. It finally settled down on Mendelsson’s ‘Allegre Molto Vivace’. This won’t be a calm child at all. “I assumed you’d pick something less ordinary.”

 

“It’s a classic name,” Sherlock argues. He doesn’t mention that he named the child after the case from when he was conceived. Shakespeare is too odd and John would never agree so it has to be William. Dark hair, blue eyes. He can picture the child already. William would suit him.

 

“It’s nice.” He kisses Sherlock’s bond-bite, stubble scratchy against Sherlock’s skin. “I like it.”

 

* * *

 

 

_How’s the baby?_ –M

 

**Fine. –SH**

Instinctively, he tightens his coat around him, the wool pressing against his stomach. William seems to sense the change in his mood. He keeps squirming inside Sherlock, his feet sliding against the walls of his belly until Sherlock finally snaps and says, “You little parasite, stop that.”

 

“Problem?”

 

John looks up from the paper, concern writ on his face as Sherlock struggles to get up. “Don’t do that,” he warns when Sherlock presses a hand against his abdomen to try and pacify William. It doesn’t work. In fact, it only makes him more restless.

 

“Why won’t he come out already?” Sherlock snaps. William can hear his voice, has been hearing his voice since he was sixteen weeks pregnant. He might not be able to understand the words yet, but he must understand that Sherlock is irritated and furious and just so sick of having a fetus stuck to his front. He’s already ten days overdue and Sherlock absolutely hates every single second of William refusing to come out.

 

“He’ll come out when he wants to, Sherlock,” John sighs. Sherlock’s wearing him out, demanding food, hating it after a single bite, pacing the flat back and forth while swearing underneath his breath. Sherlock’s snapped at John more than once this past few days, and Sherlock can tell that John wants to leave for a while, his Alpha instincts preventing him from doing so. This close to labour has John as edgy as Sherlock, snapping and literally snarling at anyone who comes too close to his mate.

 

They’re both sick of it.

 

Sherlock bites his lip, digs his fingers into the skin of his belly. He contemplates telling John about the texts, about Moriarty but…

 

No. No, Moriarty is Sherlock’s secret to keep.

 

He’s interesting. And Sherlock can’t bring himself to stop.

 

* * *

 

 

William is born on the coldest day of the month, red-faced and squalling from the shock of being born. Sherlock checks him for deformities, glancing at him quickly to count ten fingers, ten toes, a set of eyes, before he allows sentiment to take over. He’s small with ruddy skin and there are dark wisps of hair on his head. His eyes are blue, though if they’ll lean towards John’s eyes’ shade or Sherlock’s is as of now, a mystery. Like all newborns, William looks like a shrivelled alien, not exactly aesthetically pleasing.

 

He’s lovely.

 

“Look at that.” John grins. In his hands, William looks even smaller and Sherlock takes note of the careful way John holds him. Like something fragile, like glass. “God, he looks like you.” He gently bumps his mouth against William’s cheek. Sherlock isn’t sure whether or not he ought to be offended when John adds, “You’ll be handsome like your father.”

 

“Well, with your combined genes, it’s a guarantee that won’t be a patient kid,” Greg jokes. He hands William to Mycroft, who leans down to show him to the twins. “Looks like a raisin,” Sherlock hears Bea whisper in her brother’s ear. They both laugh, quieting when Mycroft stares at them sternly.

 

In his arms, William squirms until his face is pressed against Sherlock’s front, already fast asleep and drooling slightly. Sherlock lowers his head to scent him. He smells like a combination of his and John’s scents with a dash of William’s own, one that will get stronger as he grows up. An Alpha child, a status symbol for the family.

  
As if Sherlock will let his relatives take him from him. As if Sherlock will even let them touch him.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s a wee thing, Mr Holmes.”

 

Sherlock watches as Wiggins cradles William to his chest, cooing softly as the baby squirms in his arms. Surprisingly, William doesn’t cry. He cries whenever someone who isn’t related to him makes an attempt to hold him, making Molly and Mrs Hudson quite upset. “What’s his name?”

 

“William. William John.” Sherlock had added the middle name in spite of John’s protests. The name suits him well. Wiggin’s hand touches the soft curls on the top of William’s head.

 

“He looks like you,” a girl remarks. Sherlock doesn’t know her name. She’s a new addition to the homeless network, judging from the near-cleanliness of her clothes. She shuffles closer but makes no attempt to touch William. Underneath the waistband of her skirt is the swell of her belly, five months along.

 

A runaway teen. He scans the crowd of onlookers. No mate.

 

Sherlock doesn’t trust the homeless network, but introducing William to them is a necessity, especially when he’s this young. Wiggins runs it now and Sherlock occasionally comes to him for a favour. He doesn’t have his own children which makes him protective of the younger ones in the network. It will make him protective of William.

 

“Really, Sherlock?” Greg scoffs when Sherlock steps under the yellow police tape. “You can’t bring a baby to a crime scene!”

 

“It’s barely a six,” Sherlock replies with a roll of his eyes. John won’t approve but John is at the clinic under the assumption that William is with Mrs Hudson. Sherlock’s eyes land on his niece, whose favourite thing to do after class is tag along Greg. Bea greets him without any warmth. She’s only nice to John, anyway, and Sherlock doesn’t mind. “Besides, you have a minor here.”

 

“Mycroft insisted. Cedric’s at a friend’s place and Bea can get disruptive without him.”

 

“True,” Sherlock mutters, narrowing his eyes at Bea who sticks her tongue out at him. He frowns but lets her take William from his arms.

 

It’s an easy case that takes Sherlock less than fifteen minutes to solve. By the time Sherlock’s done, William’s already crying, squirming in his cousin’s arms. His cries are loud enough to cause pain and Sherlock sees several officers grimace at the noise. The moment Sherlock touches him, William quiets down. “You’re good at that,” Greg observes, smiling at the sight of his nephew patting Sherlock’s chest. It means he’s hungry and Sherlock internally rolls his eyes because god, William didn’t get his appetite from him. His eating habits are all John.

 

“Hmm?” Sherlock asks, ignoring the displeased noises William is making.

 

“Parenting,” Greg says, grinning when Sherlock throws him an annoyed look.

 

* * *

 

 

“I need help.”

 

John enters the room, a look of dismay on his face as he stares at the wet spot on the front of his jumper. In his arms, William is oblivious to his crime or good deed considering how hideous that jumper is. He currently has a fistful of John’s hair in his hand. It’s an annoying habit of his and more than once has Sherlock needed John’s help to have William stop tugging at his hair.

 

“Just because it’s your birthday, doesn’t mean you can get away with this,” John says fondly as he wipes at his shirt. Sherlock keeps William at arm’s length then puts him on John’s chair, where the skull sits. William immediately wraps his arms around it, babbling happily at an eye socket.

 

“Cute,” John says. “You were just like that when you were a baby.”

 

“We met when I was six.”

 

“I saw pictures.”

 

It’s true. William is a carbon copy of Sherlock. His hair is dark brown instead of ink black, and his eyes are John’s, but his face structure is undeniably Sherlock’s. “He needs a cut,” Sherlock says when William’s hair flops over his forehead. It’s hellish to wash it which leaves bath time to Sherlock, which Sherlock often forgets in favour of case, which leaves it to John.

 

“It’s not my fault you gave him that hair.” John wraps a finger around a curl and Sherlock allows himself to be drawn into a kiss. John smells of aftershave and peaches (William’s food) and vanilla, and Sherlock wants to drown in it, wants John to take him to bed right now, when the door swings open and the twins enter the flat.

 

“Oh,” Cedric says, face reddening. His eyes dart from left to right, clearly avoiding looking at them. “Er, hey, Will,” he greets, moving past them to lavish attention on his cousin. Bea walks behind him, one eyebrow raised at Sherlock who still has his hands on John’s hips. She doesn’t comment on it however, choosing instead to coo at William.

 

Sherlock has never been to a child’s birthday party. The twins’ can’t be considered a child’s party because they do it in the manor, and anyway, Sherlock avoids those like the plague. He’s out of his element so he holds William and watches John prepare the food and interact with guests.

 

Sherlock can almost forget Moriarty with William in his arms. But Mycroft is steering him away from the crowd and into the kitchen, where it’s private. There’s a box in his hand. It’s small, and wrapped in a gift wrapper with balloons printed on it. In the card, there’s nothing but the letter M.

 

Sherlock opens it. Inside, an apple with a bite.

  

“Be ready,” Mycroft says. His eyes are narrowed disapprovingly and Sherlock can clearly read what they’re saying.

 

This time, he’s gone too far.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can you look after them for me?”

 

Wiggins’ eyes are grim. He’s in on the plan. The whole homeless network is. And Molly. Sherlock’s surprised by how well she’s keeping up with the charade.

 

“How long?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. On Monday, he’ll be dead. It isn’t permanent. At least, not now, because it won’t be real. The length of this whole façade is the mystery.

  
Sherlock might not come back alive.

 

He might not see his mate or child again.

 

“We’ll keep them safe,” Wiggins promises. He frowns at Sherlock, eyes scanning his face, as if he’s memorizing the planes of Sherlock’s face. Wiggins knows it, too. Sherlock might die before he reaches John again. Or he might be alive and choose to not go back.

 

The possibilities are endless.

 

“Keep yourself safe as well, Mr Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m risking everything by helping you.”

 

“You said you wouldn’t.”

 

“I said I wouldn’t help you blackmail him. Then. This is now. It’s risky, true, but there are… _benefits_.” Sherrinford’s smile is almost gentle. He’s been careful around Sherlock, filtering his words for his sake, and Sherlock would hate it. He _should_ hate it. But he still feels like there isn’t enough oxygen in the room, like every step away from John and William is constricting his lungs.

 

He has been dead for fifty-three hours and John is in the flat with their child, grieving, and Sherlock hates himself for it. The bond has been dissolved with Wiggins’ help and it feels like someone’s ripped him to shreds. He rubs his fingers over the bond bite and concentrates but no…He can’t sense John anymore and John won’t be able to do the same, either.

 

It feels worse than falling.

 

There’s a ping and the voice of their pilot washes over them, informing them that they’ll dim the lights for the passengers to enjoy the view of the city. Behind them, a young girl gasps at the twinkling lights.

 

“Look down,” Sherrinford suggests. “The lights are beautiful.”

 

Sherlock does. London is lovely at night and Sherlock watches as it shrinks, watches as it becomes smaller than his palm, watches until there’s nothing outside his window but the black sky.

 

 


End file.
